


The Eve of Destruction

by istia



Series: The Eve of Destruction [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, M/M, POV George Cowley, Zine: Roses and Lavender 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-04-25
Updated: 2000-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:12:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/istia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Eve, CI5-style. Bodie and Doyle seen through Cowley's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eve of Destruction


       You tell me over and over and over again, my friend,
       How you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.
    
          --Barry McGuire, The Eve of Destruction, 1965

Even the surgical ward in a mid-sized county hospital seemed blanketed with a sense of the day's serenity, superficial and deceptive though that appearance might be. Attempts to impose seasonal gaiety on the denizens of the ward were evident in the tinsel that crookedly outlined the door to the waiting room, and in the small, artificial tree gracing a coffee table, unnaturally bright green-and-red sprigs of artificial holly arranged in an effort to obscure the plastic base. To George Cowley's weary eye, however, the tree seemed more pathetic than gay. Its silver branches, bowing under the weight of oversized baubles, seemed garish with the reflected colours of tiny fairy lights that fought a valiant but doomed battle against both the dim-lit gloom that darkened the late-afternoon sky outside the windows, and the tense, waiting atmosphere within. On the eve of the anniversary of the birth of our Lord, the forces of havoc had triumphed again, and no amount of lights and tinsel could unmake what had occurred.

Though there was no profit in dwelling on what had been lost; best, rather, to focus on what had been salvaged from disaster--little though that might be. The boy--ach, hardly a boy; a man grown and able to choose his sides and time of betrayal, and bear the consequences of his own decisions--had been doomed as soon as he had opted to trust his previous companions in petty but escalating terrorism rather than the agent who had tried to give him another option. An agent who had paid his own price for the gamble. The contact might have been a valuable source of information if they had played him for a few days, but Cowley had reckoned the odds and bowed to the pressure to attempt a quick snatch of the cell before they could smear more innocent blood on the holiday pavements. A resolution of the situation was imperative, the Minister had stressed. As this group was hardly in the IRA's league, it was vital that CI5 demonstrate Her Majesty's government's hard-line stance and crush it immediately.

Aye, imperatives abounded in the abstract, but it was men and women who had to bear the brunt of the nation's needs.

The individual, in this case, being a single agent who had volunteered to accompany the fidgety young contact as he walked across the cover-bare perimeter of the isolated farmhouse in an effort to distract the inmates just sufficiently to allow a force to creep close enough, in the pre-dawn twilight, to stage an assault. Rather than giving CI5 the chance to get into position, however, the frightened boy had betrayed their presence. They'd heard him babble a warning as soon as the pair were inside the door, followed by shots ringing tinnily over the agent's concealed open-channel R/T before a squeal ended its broadcasts. A stand-off, then, for the stretch of hours between dawn and dusk on one of the shortest days of the year that had seemed one of the longest. The house was well-barricaded, and a display of fire power had convinced Cowley they had no chance of successfully attacking without awaiting cover of darkness. Before the Squad could make its move, however, another barrage of automatic shots had pinned them down. The terrorists had escaped in a four-wheel-drive van that had ploughed through the wooden door of the attached garage and headed across muddy fields the CI5 cars were unable to negotiate. Roadblocks were raised, for all the good they would do, and dusk made helicopter searches impracticable until dawn. Cowley could but acknowledge the entire operation had been a bungle.

Still, while the terrorists themselves had escaped, they had had to abandon a large stockpile of supplies. They might, with luck, be neutralised for the time being, and the need to gather new supplies would be more apt to expose them now CI5 knew what types of bombs they favoured. Agents were combing the house at that moment, looking for further clues as to identities, contacts, and suppliers. Papers had been found, Cowley had been informed in a terse message from an exhausted Anson. Cowley had called in available undercover agents, experienced men such as Stuart, to spell the active agents, and mobilised the B-squad, despite the day, to take over obboes and other less-crucial CI5 concerns. He'd be back on the job himself, soon. As soon as he got word on his agent.

The creak of leather distracted him from his thoughts, and Cowley glanced up. Bodie was on his feet once more, pacing to the window, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his tan leather jacket. Cowley could see the reflection of the beard-shadowed face in the glass. Generous mouth pursed, eyes drooping and bleak, the gaze was set on inner visions undoubtedly as dark as the darkness into which he sightlessly looked. Bodie had been angry when Doyle had volunteered to accompany the grass, but that was so little out of the ordinary that his loud objection, and Doyle's equally predictable, impatient reply, had barely penetrated Cowley's preoccupation with logistics. Cowley knew what the pursed mouth meant; Bodie was restraining himself from lashing out for this botched job that had landed his partner of seven years in hospital on Christmas Eve.

The abandoned house had resembled a mediaeval shambles when Cowley had followed his people inside. Papers, clothes, and rubbish strewn everywhere had attested to the scramble to make a break; smashed and overturned furniture had borne witness to a hard fight, or several. Possible dissension amongst the members of the group on what they should do? Perhaps Doyle himself had been responsible for some of the damage. Cowley's restless brain had speculated despite knowing he was clutching at straws of hope amongst a carnage of destruction and blood.

The boy had been tortured before he'd been shot. Blood spattered the floor around the tipped-over chair to which he'd been tied, a wide dark pool staining the area around his shattered skull. Someone with a macabre sense of humour had dropped a carol sheet from a newspaper over his smashed face; the title, "O Come All Ye Faithful," could just be picked out through rust-coloured stains.

Bodie had added to the shambles in his frenzied search for his partner, whom he had uncovered in a corner behind a large, slip-covered chair where Doyle had possibly crawled, or been thrown. The bullet Doyle carried in his thigh shouldn't be fatal, but he'd been severely beaten, had lost a lot of blood, and was in shock. He'd been shot, it seemed, in the first moments of betrayal. To stop a move to escape? Impossible to know why he hadn't been killed outright with the boy, though Cowley speculated that the group might have kept Doyle alive as a potential negotiating asset. The boy had suffered the brunt of his comrades' vengeful rage for having led CI5 to their door; the bullet in the back of his head was the mark of an execution. Perhaps, at the last, they had considered Doyle to be too far gone to bother finishing off, and too much deadweight to drag with them in a crowded van. Or, perhaps, he'd simply been overlooked in the frantic drive to make their breakaway. All was conjecture until he awoke--providing he retained any memory of his ordeal.

Providing, too, that he survived surgery. Though he was a tough lad, Doyle was. He'd live to fight another day, until he couldn't fight any more.

Cowley looked again at Bodie's set face, at the shuttered eyes and grimly compressed mouth. He'd lose both of them one day; Cowley knew it. One way or another, it would end for one of them. And the other, at that time?

"Mr Cowley?"

The voice was startling in the deep silence. Cowley blinked out of his preoccupation and looked up to see a man entering the room wearing blood-streaked green scrubs. At the same time, from the corner of his eye, he was aware of Bodie's tension as he swung sharply around. Cowley stood, walked forward, meeting the doctor in the centre of the room, with Bodie an intense, alert figure at his side.

"Yes. How is my man, Dr--?"

"Newman, sir. Mr Doyle is out of surgery and in recovery. His vital signs are good considering all he's been through. The bullet fortunately did not do any major damage; it did slightly chip the femur, but the bone isn't broken and there was no arterial damage. If there had been, he would undoubtedly have bled to death. Our primary concern is infection since the wound went untreated for possibly as long as ten hours. We've started him on Mefoxin and will be utilising a course of full-range antibiotics. I can say with reasonable hopefulness that he will make a full recovery; he's young and very fit, which is a distinct advantage. However, as I'm sure you understand, Mr Cowley, infection can cause serious complications. The severe beating he received has compounded the problems of shock and subsidiary damage his body must deal with. I see no cause for alarm at this time, but he should remain under close observation for the next several days."

Bodie's mouth compressed even further. Cowley felt weariness eating at his gut like acid. And responsibility, aye; and sorrow.

"I should like to transfer him to London as soon as possible, Doctor."

"I can understand that, sir." A ghost of a smile touched Dr Newman's mouth to match his wry tone. "Facilities in London are certainly superior." He became briskly impersonal once more. "I would rather not see him moved, at least overnight, if possible. His body needs time to become stabilised and allow the antibiotic to start its work."

"Aye, all right, Doctor. I'll have to leave a guard here, I'm afraid. I don't expect any trouble, but it's best to be safe than sorry. Bodie."

He turned to the silent figure looming just behind his left shoulder, and met Bodie's eyes for the first time since they'd discovered Doyle. Bitter anger buffetted him momentarily before a veil of thick lashes swept the lids down to hide the tell-tale eyes. When they lifted again, Bodie's eyes were as shuttered and unreadable as the rest of his face, though the tension lay still between them like a web of contentiousness they would have to negotiate at some point. But each matter in its time, and now was not the time for the revisiting of this familiar ground.

"If you would show Mr Bodie to Mr Doyle's room, Doctor, we'll do our best not to interfere with your routine."

The doctor led Bodie to the door. Cowley pivoted on his good leg and leaned to lift his coat from the chair. He pulled it on with movements slowed by the joint tiredness of spirit and body alike. Vaguely aware of a smear of blood on the hem of the camel overcoat that would require dry-cleaning to remove, he was even more distantly aware of the doctor calling to a nurse to escort Bodie to the ICU. He recognised the danger in the depth of his preoccupation at the same instant he turned towards the door and saw that the doctor had returned without Cowley's noticing or realising, and was, indeed, almost at his side. He shook himself mentally and turned the full force of his attention on the other man.

"Mr Cowley, if I may have a word?"

"Doctor? Is this to do with Mr Doyle?"

"Yes, sir. I need to speak to you alone."

"What is it?" he said, sharply. "You said Doyle is provisionally out of danger; is that not true?"

"No, not at all. Mr Doyle's condition, and the hopeful prognosis, are exactly as I described. It's another matter that surfaced during the examination that causes me concern, though it's not a concern of a medical nature." He paused and took a breath, looking at Cowley squarely in the eye before seeming to make up his mind. "Sir, I find myself in a difficult position, but am doing what I believe I must to protect my patient's privacy. I wouldn't mention the matter at all except I'm aware that all medical records pertaining to security agents are routinely forwarded to the agency in question."

Cowley raised his eyebrows. He wouldn't have expected a county doctor to have had much experience of the security agencies or their personnel.

Apparently having no trouble reading the expression in Cowley's eyes, Dr Newman said, with a wry twist again clear in his voice, "I have a cousin who works for the, uh, civil service." His tone and face became serious once more. "Mr Cowley, I realise that you'll proceed on the information in the report, when you receive it, in whatever way you deem appropriate. My concern is to alert you to the fact that it includes information that could, if it were to be seen by eyes other than your own and your medical officer's, be prejudicial to your agent's status and future given the present governmental attitudes towards security issues."

"Bah, man, get to the point and stop dancing around with fancy words! I'm too old and too tired to play games. What do you wish to tell me?"

Dr Newman's voice was soft in the empty room. "Our initial examination uncovered a great deal of bruising on Mr Doyle's body, including severe contusions in the gluteal area. As a matter of course, since Mr Doyle had been held hostage for several hours and subjected to abuse, and was not conscious to answer our questions, we did a rectal exam."

Cowley felt a stab of cold fear as though ice water had abruptly invaded his veins. "Aye?" he demanded, harshly, every nerve now focused without effort.

"He wasn't assaulted, Mr Cowley," Dr Newman said, his voice even-toned, calm, but serious. "We did, however, note signs of recent anal intercourse."

Cowley would later castigate himself for the momentary confusion that greeted these words. Then the ice water descended in a flood over his entire body, and his mind awoke and sorted rapidly through the myriad implications.

"Not assaulted? How can you be sure?"

"There are no signs of internal bruising or tears as would be expected if he had been forcibly entered. Moreover, seminal fluid was not--well, the details are in the report. In summary, we saw no signs of a sexual assault within the past ten hours."

Suspicion came with a scalding heat that made the flood of ice-water retreat, leaving anger in its wake: "And your motive in telling me this information is merely some kind of attempt to protect the reputation of a stranger?"

"Sir, I take the tenet of doctor-patient confidentiality seriously. It's because I suspect that such confidentiality may not be respected within the security services that I felt the need to give you this information directly rather than simply trusting that it might not be seen by some subordinate in your office during or after its transfer to CI5, with unknown ramifications for Mr Doyle. Once the medical record leaves this hospital, I have no control over who sees it or what might be done with it. I felt it incumbent on me to protect my patient's privacy in the only way available to me. What you choose to do with the information is up to you precisely as it would have been if it had come to your attention through regular channels, as I presume it would have. I've now done all within my power to protect my patient's interests."

He was angry now, behind the coolly formal words; it showed in the glitter of his eyes and the way a fine-boned hand raked through his thinning, already dishevelled hair. Cowley took a closer look at the man. In his early thirties; fit; plain, but with passion already stamping his long face with character. A man of integrity? Aye, very like. And fiery with it. Cowley took mental note of his name--aye--Newman. CI5 was always on the lookout for men of such calibre, and Dr Newman might well welcome an invitation to relocate to a facility in London with--what had he said?--"superior resources." Their medical liaison at Bart's was nearing retirement age. This man was at least worth adding to the roster of potential candidates for the position--after a thorough vetting, of course, to ensure there were no aspects of his life, past or present, that might result in his being a security risk.

Doyle showed signs of recent anal intercourse. And he hadn't been raped.

He gathered a breath that came hard. "Thank you, Doctor," he said. "I shall ensure that Mr Doyle's medical record will not be seen by any unauthorised eyes. Please keep me updated on any changes in his condition. You can relay information through Mr Bodie."

Apparently somewhat mollified, with wariness replacing the hard anger in his eyes, Dr Newman left him with a nod, pausing only at Cowley's quiet summons to give him directions to the ICU before hurrying down the hallway, flexing his shoulder muscles with circular movements. Cowley felt unwonted hesitation dog his steps as he moved towards the exit. He slowed his pace; then, as his usual decisiveness asserted itself, turned and walked briskly to the lifts instead.

Bodie stood sentry outside the unit, but he was facing inward rather than outward, staring through the observation window. His face wore a familiar blank impassivity, as though nothing touched him. Cowley stepped to his side and peered through the window at the white-sheeted figure. The room was dim, and Doyle merely a blur under the sheet, the shadowed untidiness of his too-long curls on the pillow the only distinguishable feature. Yet Bodie's eyes flickered to acknowledge Cowley's presence, then settled back on the figure within. What did he see as he stared with unvarying intentness? Cowley had long ago recognised, with some bemusement, that Doyle was a magnet to tough, cool Bodie. A lodestone for Bodie's eyes, and his hands, and, increasingly over the years, his attention, his protectiveness, his need.

_Well, there's a better man back there!_

_You'd better tell me, my lovely. Because if anything happens to Ray...._

Recognition, however, doesn't necessarily lead to understanding. Oh, Cowley valued Doyle, as a clever man, a man of principles, as well as an invaluable and dedicated agent. Still, he couldn't pretend he understood--had ever or would ever understand--what elusive quality Bodie found in Doyle that Bodie himself somehow needed. And wanted, aye; and would do whatever he needed to keep.

As for Doyle's feelings for Bodie--well. Less blatant than his partner, Doyle was more unreadable except when his temper was aroused. Try to stop him from working on a case on which Bodie was injured, and expect a volcano to erupt in one's face.

His peripheral vision showed him Bodie's head turning to track the quiet presence of a nurse entering the hallway, her soft-soled shoes making only a whisper of sound against the linoleum floor. Bodie's eyes didn't return to the figure in the bed until the nurse had disappeared behind the desk. On duty, despite his seeming preoccupation. As, indeed, Bodie always was on duty where Doyle was concerned. Fine lads, both of them. Two of the best men he'd recruited; the most effective and successful partnership he had forged. He acknowledged the irony with a brief mental smile, then banished it. They had served him and the public loyally and well for seven years, and were just as reliably diligent when it concerned strangers assigned to their protection.

Aye, well, at least to a point.

_I wasn't talking about Ojuka, sir._

Cowley parted his lips, then let them fall slowly together again. He turned away without a word. Bodie didn't need instructions. A helpless Doyle would be safeguarded no matter the cost to Bodie. Cowley had known that fact before this evening; had long, in truth, taken it for granted. He walked briskly to the lifts, trying not to favour his aching leg. He'd return to town. The farmhouse was being emptied and all contents of potential usefulness were being shipped to HQ while agents dismantled the walls and floors looking for other stashes and clues. It would mean a deal of sorting and computer work until Doyle awoke and might be able to identify faces or names. A brief rest, and then come at it fresh.

And he had a decision to make.

Cowley welcomed the rush of cold, pristine air against his face as he left the hospital. He paused on the concrete porch, momentarily dazzled by the beauty of the clear firmament stretched above the world like a hint of infinity. He brought his eyes firmly down to the earth, with its limitations and entanglements. He glimpsed the red Ford Granada waiting at the kerb a short way up the road; Henshaw would be dozing at the wheel. Cowley had come in the ambulance. Outside the pool of light cast by the nearest lamp standard, the shadowed car looked as dark as the blood spattered about the farmhouse had appeared; as dark as the stain on Cowley's coat and those on Bodie's hands when they'd reached the hospital. Faintly, in the distance, he could hear a raucously cheerful rendition of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" playing on a radio.

In the morning of this seemingly peaceful evening replete with the promise of joy on the morrow, a boy had died in torment after betraying one of Cowley's own. In the process--the worse betrayal to Cowley's mind--innocent citizens had been placed at risk and might well die because the boy's choice had allowed the terrorists to escape. Standing in the chill, clear air, Cowley acknowledged his own responsibility for the events of the day and for his part in what might eventuate from choices he had yet to make. The bombers were safe for the moment to work their private agenda of hate and chaos, and some people who slept safely tonight might not be safe for long.

But a good man was safe, and another was with him.

George Cowley moved slowly down the steps into a vast, drowning gulf of loneliness.


End file.
